


The Golden Sand

by sanguinity



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Angst, Book 5: Lord Hornblower, M/M, Only One Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 04:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21403933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: Once again a prisoner of the French, Hornblower awaits his execution.
Relationships: William Bush/Horatio Hornblower
Comments: 14
Kudos: 29





	The Golden Sand

**Author's Note:**

> From [a tumblr prompt](https://sanguinarysanguinity.tumblr.com/post/189005380773/for-the-meme-1-or-14-for-hotspur-husbands-modern) from an anon — thank you, Nonny! Thanks also to Grrlpup for beta. 
> 
> Spoilers for _Lord Hornblower._

It was a long night in that brightly candlelit dungeon cell. A long night, waiting for dawn and his execution, while his watchers watched him carefully, determined that he should not cheat death on the one hand nor the firing squad on the other. Hornblower lay curled on his mattress and watched the golden dust glittering in the candlelight, and waited for the hour that he would be taken from the dungeon and up into the weak dawn light, and be killed as the first rays of true sunlight broke over the château.

It was a long night, and yet dawn came early in June.

"They mean to kill me at sunrise," Hornblower said.

"Aye, sir," Bush replied, the familiar voice comforting. Bush shifted, his body pressed near Hornblower's upon the narrow straw palliasse, and Hornblower was thankful that there was only one mattress, and thus there was a reason other than Hornblower's own cowardice for Bush to lie so close.

"Kill us both, I mean," Hornblower corrected himself, abruptly ashamed at the oversight. It was selfish to think only of his own death, when Bush would die, too.

"That's no matter, sir. I always meant to die beside you."

Loyal Bush. Hornblower remembered the deck of the _Sutherland, _hellfire raining around them, Bush struck down and protesting against being carried safe below.

"And I never would let you," Hornblower remembered.

"No, sir. Always made me stay behind, while you led the party ashore yourself."

"Not always. Not at Cape Creux." Hornblower well remembered his anxiety for Bush on that occasion — how through his telescope Hornblower had monitored the distant progress of the shore party and wondered whether Bush still lived to lead it. He remembered the relief, too, of seeing Bush, alive and apparently well, sitting in the sternsheets of the returning boat, and how unreal the knowledge had felt. Unreal, until the moment that Bush came aft and clasped Hornblower by the hand.

"Nor at Caudebec," Bush said, grave and regretful, and confusion prickled at Hornblower. He thought he remembered — no, that must have been a dream, Bush dying in a filthy river while Hornblower read by candlelight, oblivious. Only a nightmare, Hornblower's grief as he waited for news that never came. One of those tricksy dreams that are so difficult to disentangle from reality later.

Even with his eyes shut tight, the light from the candles was too bright.

"Here," Bush said, and sat up. Hornblower rested his hand on Bush's thigh while Bush shrugged off his jacket, removed his waistcoat. The waistcoat was folded into a pillow for his head, and then Bush was lying close again, his jacket spread across them both, hitched high over their heads for some relief from the light.

Curiously, the watchers did not protest.

Hornblower rested his hand at Bush's waist — it did not seem too bold, not while pressed together on this narrow palliasse, not after waking in Bush's arms on the Loire. He tugged at the laces of Bush's shirt, tugged until the throat opened enough to lay his hand upon the skin of Bush's breast. Bush's skin was warm, and Hornblower curled his fingers in the soft hair beneath his fingers.

Bush kissed him.

It was a revelation, the rightness of Bush's kiss. He felt its warmth all through him. The tenderness of Bush's love and devotion, the sweet comfort of it. How bittersweet, that the first kiss should be the last! A keening grief rose up in him that the time for kissing Bush was nearly done. Would be done and gone forever with the cold light of dawn.

But there was still time for another kiss, and another kiss after that, and Hornblower took them.

Bush held him close, an arm around his waist.

"Why did you never kiss me before?" Hornblower wondered.

"I didn't know you wanted it from me," Bush answered.

"I didn't know, either," Hornblower said, but it was a lie. He had always turned at the last moment into another's arms: Maria, Barbara, Marie. The grief of the last, unlooked for, hit him broadside. Oh, Marie! Marie would still live now, were it not for Hornblower. Marie and Maria both.

Hornblower clutched at Bush, and Bush kissed him, forgiving of Hornblower's cowardice, refusing to judge his mistakes. Still Bush kissed him, and the hour crept toward dawn.

"We cheated them in Paris," Hornblower said. The boat on the snowy riverbank. The ferocity of the winter-swollen Loire.

He felt, rather than saw, Bush grin. "That we did, sir."

"We shan't cheat them this morning." For all the times that Hornblower had faced death, his spine erect and chin high, he did not want to die. "I'm a coward," he said, speaking the secret he had hidden for so long.

"Hold my hand, sir." In the dark beneath the jacket, Bush's hand sought out Hornblower's, rough calluses under Hornblower's fingers. Hornblower could have wept with the familiarity of that horny hand. He held fast, a lifeline against the coming dawn, and Bush gripped back with a sure strength. "You'll be all right, sir."

"They'll have good aim, you mean. A quick death."

Bush was silent. He lay pressed close to Hornblower, his hand holding Hornblower's. Even knowing what was to come in the morning, there was comfort in the grip of Bush's hand, the press of Bush's body against his. It was like a dream, having Bush so close, so warm and protective.

When the rattle at the door came, the clashing of the bars, Hornblower tried to hold Bush close, but the light of the candles was too bright. The jacket fell aside, and Hornblower blinked in the light. The aide-de-camp loomed in that small, brightly lit cell, and Hornblower, confused, tried to hold on to the memory of kisses, the feel of a horny hand in his.

The jacket in his lap was his own.

"It is not death," the aide-de-camp said, and explained about a place in Belgium called Waterloo.

But Hornblower could not hear, could not make sense of the aide-de-camp's words, because Hornblower was trying to remember about a place called Caudebec.


End file.
